


All Your Doors Prefer Locks

by elithewho



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Antisemitism, Aristocracy, Arranged Marriage, Awkwardness, Class Issues, Dancing, F/M, Falling In Love, First Time, Horseback Riding, Loss of Virginity, Marriage of Convenience, Masturbation, Panic Attacks, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 01:13:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11749023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elithewho/pseuds/elithewho
Summary: Percival Gareth, only son and prospective Lord Marquess of Gravesend, must hereby wed in the presence of God precisely one year after the date of my, Lord Marquess Gareth George Graves’s, death. If he does not, he is hereby disinherited and forfeits any and all rights to my estate.It's 1882. Yorkshire, England. Graves is compelled to marry a complete stranger or he loses everything. It turns out better than expected.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My shameless love for Greenie leads me to a ridic AU once again. For this story, I made some attempt at historical accuracy and ignored real life whenever it pleased me. Any mistakes are either intentional or a failure of research, but feel free to point something out if I fucked up bigly.
> 
> Story is complete and will be updated regularly.
> 
> Eternal thanks and love to Morgan, for providing edits and ideas and some of the best lines in this, honestly. All for you, bb <3

_**Yorkshire, United Kingdom, 1882** _

_Percival Gareth, only son and prospective Lord Marquess of Gravesend, must hereby wed in the presence of God precisely one year after the date of my, Lord Marquess Gareth George Graves’s, death. If he does not, he is hereby disinherited and forfeits any and all rights to my estate._

It was all there in black and white, signed with his father’s customary flourish. His father’s cruel and punitive last will and testament had been a dark cloud hanging over him for nearly twelve months, since the day his father died and his will was read aloud for all to hear.

Graves had never had a close, or even friendly, relationship with his father. He’d been a cold, proud man, full of disdain for just about everyone he ever met. He had expected a lot from his son and hadn’t let him forget it. He’d been outright disgusted with Graves’s commitment to remaining a lifelong bachelor, believing strongly that his name and legacy should be passed to a new generation. With no other siblings, Graves was the only hope for the family name. But he had hated that expectation, that he must marry some flighty girl like his mother had been, chain her to the house and the birthing bed, give her a miserable existence just because his father wanted him to breed above all else. He wouldn’t be treated as a prized stud. 

This act of defiance was too much for the late Lord Graves. And so the vindictive clause in his will was kept an ironclad secret until his death and Graves was sure the old man was laughing from whatever hell pit he’d been thrown into. Graves had tried to find a way around it, but he quickly lost hope. The few friends he had, mostly mates he’d made at Eton, introduced him to a stream of young ladies, none of whom Graves had any desire to marry. He did not enjoy the company of most people and he hated the thought that a pretty young woman, filled with hope for the future, should be shackled to him; old, cantankerous, misanthropic. Some of them seemed nice enough, but he couldn’t imagine living his whole life with them. He did not want a sad sham of a marriage like the one suffered by his parents.

And he was running out of time. It had nearly been a full year since his father breathed his last and Graves had still stubbornly refused to take a wife. That sort of stubbornness had served him well in other avenues, his studies for one, but he was beginning to think he should simply give up and marry one of the candidates his peers insisted he consider. 

The entire mess had put Graves into a deep melancholy which even those closest to him noticed, and they were used to his persistent sour moods. He didn’t like to discuss his feelings much, but his school friend Albus, for example, was constantly throwing him concerned looks as if he were contemplating a swan dive from the nearest bridge. It did nothing but infuriate him.

It was Albus he was seeing tonight, and when the carriage stopped in front of his gate and the young man clambered in, Graves was expected more unrelenting worry.

“I have excellent news,” Albus immediately announced, a wide grin on his face that took Graves aback. “How are you, by the way? Oh, never mind, I must tell you before I perish from excitement.” Albus dabbed at his forehead which had started to perspire in his eagerness. “I have a wife for you,” he said.

Graves nearly laughed outright. All he managed was an indignant grunt. “I seriously doubt that.”

“Yes, well, I thought you’d say that,” Albus said cheerfully, plowing on regardless. “But you should at least consider her.”

They were headed for the gentleman’s club, a place where Graves went to do what he usually did at home: drink and stare morosely into the nearest fireplace. By the time they arrived, Albus was nearly bursting with excitement.

“I do believe she’s perfect,” he said with exuberance. “She’s quite pretty, I think.”

Graves didn’t respond. Many of the women foisted on him had been beautiful.

“And she’s wonderfully witty.”

Graves stared into his whiskey. He did admire wit, mostly because he didn’t feel he possessed it himself. “And what’s her name?”

“Oh, you haven’t heard of her.”

Graves raised an eyebrow, curious now. “Is she foreign?” By his own volition, Graves would not have been familiar with every eligible bachelorette in London, but he was, unfortunately.

“She’s not – well – she isn’t – you see, she works in a dress shop.”

“She works…?” Graves repeated, confounded. Young ladies of status did not work.

“That’s the beauty of it!” Albus exclaimed, so excited he nearly upended his whiskey. “You are so against marrying anyone like your father would have wanted you to, why not step outside those parameters?”

The idea was ludicrous, of course. Graves counted himself as far more socially progressive that his hateful father had ever been, but he had never considered marrying someone from a lower class.

The whiskey kept flowing and the idea kept turning in his mind. Albus continued to push, lauding this mysterious young lady as though she were the most brilliant creature to walk the earth.

“Truly, she’s very talented,” he said, words beginning to slur only just. “You see this?” He held out his sleeve, embroidered with a floral pattern. Albus had always adored flamboyant clothes. “She designed it as well, all on her own! And it isn’t even her best work…”

“Perhaps you should marry her since she’s so perfect.”

Albus laughed heartily, so hard that he wiped tears from his eyes. “Goodness no, Percival, don’t be ridiculous.”

Graves frowned deeply, staring into the dancing flames. He did need to get married, that was plain. He’d be out on his ear without his father’s money and that was entirely his fault since he spent the whole year hemming and hawing and feeling sorry for himself. And if he married some lowly seamstress he could just imagine his father spitting with rage, shaking his fist from the fiery hell he was cast into. That was a comforting thought.

“And this young woman has no objection to marrying a complete stranger?”

Albus swallowed thickly, a sure sign of nervousness. “Well, she’s – at the moment anyway – just a bit down and out, I’d say.”

“She’s desperate enough to marry a stranger because I’m rich?” Graves muttered.

“Now, can you blame her? Wouldn’t you be doing the same thing?”

Graves opened his mouth to argue and then realized he was entirely right. They did have the same reasons for saying yes to this ridiculous plan. Not that Graves was saying yes to anything quite yet.

As more whiskey was consumed, the more Graves could laugh at the idea. Or what passed for a laugh from Graves’s lips. That he would marry a stranger and shock society with his bold and unconventional choice in bride. It was all so ridiculous.

“So you’ll do it?” Albus asked eagerly as they stumbled out, leaning on each other’s shoulders.

“Of course,” Graves slurred. “Why not? Can’t think of a single reason why not…”

“Excellent, excellent.”

Nothing could possibly go wrong.

 

Graves awoke with a splitting headache and his valet bearing a note from Albus.

_I am heading to London now to retrieve Miss Goldstone. The arrangements have been made at Saint Mark’s. I daresay if you don’t like the flowers I picked out there’s not much to be done. And while you didn’t ask, I am more than pleased to stand as your best man._

_\- A_

Graves blinked blearily at the note, the events of the previous night coming back to him in a confused rush. Did he really have to drink so much? He knew, from previous experience, that drinking to oblivion was one of the only ways to induce a calm, dreamless sleep. Otherwise… well, he didn’t like to think of the otherwise.

He crumpled Albus’s note in his hand and got unsteadily to his feet. His valet had provided a basin of cool water and he gratefully plunged his face into it, emerging dripping but no less calm. So he’d be getting married within the next few days which was… bothersome. A large part of him wanted to send a messenger to London and call the whole thing off. It would be a terrible thing for Albus and this Miss Goldstone to travel all the way to Yorkshire and have him turn them away. But on the other hand…

If he didn’t take a wife within the next few days he’d say goodbye to the only home he’d ever known. His father’s fortune was substantial; Graves was not one to spend piles of cash and carry on, but without some money he wasn’t sure what would become of him. He’d returned from South Africa only just before his father’s passing and he had felt like a different person. He wasn’t the same man who had left but hardly anyone seemed to recognize that. He was dour and distant and solitary before and to anyone else he supposed his current state was more of the same. They had no idea what went on inside his head. This grim estate had been his only source of comfort, allowing him to be alone, cut off from a world he’d come to despise.

Groaning, Graves pulled on a dressing gown and had his breakfast brought up. Perhaps he would go through with this marriage. If she became unhappy with him, which seemed inevitable, he could give her a healthy allowance and let her live wherever she pleased, away from him. If he recalled correctly from the night before, she was in dire financial straits. Even being married to him was surely better than the streets. Or so he imagined.

After breakfast, he went for a ride. The air was cool and humid, thick with a low fog that burned out by lunchtime and Graves was exhausted. He headed back home, already wondering if his quiet life of solitude would be upended by the arrival of his new wife. He had a light lunch and spent the afternoon reading until he fell into an uneasy nap, glasses sliding down his nose as he dozed.

Gunfire in the darkness. A lone scream piercing his thoughts like a dagger. He woke with a start, hand jerking sideways and knocking over the cold cup of tea he’d had with lunch. His heart was still racing as he watched the tea spread over his desk and then drip onto the carpet. He called for someone to help, but then felt guilty as the housemaid who bustled in got down on the floor to mop up the spilled tea. He sent her away, perhaps a little harsher than he meant because she quailed a bit, looking frightened as he took the sodden rag from her hand. But he would rather be alone anyway. He got down on his knees, cursing his father and then Albus and Miss Goldstone and finally himself. He had himself to blame most of all. He should have married one of the women his mother had thrust at him in his youth. 

The next day, Graves was still wracked with indecision. Every hour it seemed he changed his position: one moment sure he would call the whole thing off and the next minute be resigned to go through with it. Albus and his new bride had just arrived in town and his practical side insisted he actually meet her before joining her in holy matrimony, but another part of him resisted. Get it over with, he thought. If he met her with only an hour to spare before the ceremony, he was sure to let his cowardice get the better of him.

He donned a suit which he designated fine enough to get married in -- all black as usual, fine silver buttons, a formal top hot, leather gloves. He examined himself in the mirror fretfully as his valet brushed his shoulders to remove any trace of hair or dust. He knew he was not particularly fashionable, foregoing the side whiskers and moustaches for a clean-shaven face. He did not like colours or patterns particularly. His hair, once quite black, was going grey at the temples. His face looked older, more lined, even compared to just a year ago. He wondered sourly what his bride would think of him. Nothing good, he imagined, except that he was rich enough to provide a comfortable life for her. At twenty thousand pounds a year it was the least he could manage.

He knew his staff must be bewildered at the imminent arrival of a new mistress, but he hoped they would adjust in time. He tried to treat them fairly, but he would often descend into dark moods and he’d find himself being short or cold to his valet and housemaids. Perhaps they’d enjoy having someone nicer to tend to.

The carriage ride to the village chapel seemed both longer and shorter than usual. He was fraught with anxiety, continuously fixing his tie or checking his pocket watch at every moment. It seemed very sudden when the carriage came to a halt and the driver opened the door at their arrival. Graves steeled himself and stepped out.

There were a few townspeople gathered, excited by the spectacle of a wedding no doubt. Inside the church, candles had been lit and white lilies adorned the altar where the vicar stood waiting for him. The only other person in attendance was Albus, wearing a ridiculous violet suit and looking thrilled. Graves frowned even more deeply.

“I wasn’t entirely sure you’d show up,” Albus said, grinning ear to ear. His suit clashed with his ginger hair horribly.

“Well, here I am,” Graves responded. “And I don’t even know my new wife’s Christian name.”

“It’s Queenie,” Albus told. “She’ll arrive in a moment.”

“Queenie?” Graves muttered. “That’s an interesting name.”

“She’s thrilled to meet you, really. Oh –“

The organist had just started playing, and the vicar, who had been observing their conversation with some disapproval, opened his copy of the Common Book of Prayer. With the organ groaning, the doors of the parish were thrown open and in walked the bride, swathed in ivory silk with a lace-trimmed veil drawn down over her face.

Graves's palms began to itch. This was all progressing at an alarming rate, but Albus was still grinning as the young Miss Goldstone floated down the aisle, flocked on both sides by empty pews. He couldn’t quite make out her face through the veil but he saw blonde hair done up in fashionable braids and ornamented with flowers. She paused beside him, in front of the altar, giving Albus a little wave of greeting.

“Hello,” she said to Graves as he tried to make out the particular details of her face through her veil.

“Hello,” he muttered in response and they both crossed themselves.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this… congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony…” the vicar intoned and Graves took Queenie’s offered hand in his. She had small white hands clothed in dainty, fingerless lace gloves. It was all a bit hurried and unencumbered by flowery language, which was fine. And then came the sticking point…

“Percival Gareth Graves, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

It took a moment for Graves to summon his voice and answer. Albus gave him a nudge and he finally choked out the right words. “I will.”

The vicar asked Queenie to answer in kind and she did without much hesitation.

“I, Percival Gareth Graves, take thee, Queenie Goldstone, to my wedded wife,” the vicar said, prompting Graves to repeat. After a moment, he did.

“… to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

“I, Queenie Goldstone, take thee, Percival Graves, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth,” Queenie repeated after the vicar without stuttering a single bit.

Graves could feel sweat pop out on his forehead and he itched to wipe it away. The vicar handed him the ring, a simple gold band. Graves could feel his fingers tremble as he carefully slipped the lace glove from Queenie’s hand, fumbling it a bit and taking longer than necessary. He could feel the vicar sigh in annoyance, making him even more anxious. 

“With this ring… w-with this ring,” he repeated after the vicar, stumbling over the words in his nervousness. “I thee wed, with m-my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

He put the ring on her finger. Wishing he could keep her hidden so he wouldn’t have to see her expression, likely one of derision, Graves took her veil and pulled it over her face. She was pretty, he observed, just as Albus had reported. Large grey-green eyes, blonde ringlets, a dimple in her cheek when she smiled. And she was smiling, as though it were the happiest day of her life.

Together, they knelt before the altar as the vicar wheezed, “Let us pray.” After much praying, he took Graves’s sweaty hand and placed it firmly upon Queenie’s. “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder,” he said, and Graves swallowed thickly.

The rest of the ceremony seemed to take ages and Graves was longing for it to end as the vicar droned on and on. Finally, the sermon concluded and the vicar brought out wafers and wine to administer the Holy Communion, and finally, finally, they were married.

Albus lagged behind to pay the clergy and Graves escorted his new wife out to the waiting carriage. The small gathering of townsfolk all cheered when they emerged and Queenie beamed at them. Graves could feel his cheeks grow hot. He helped Queenie up into the carriage and got in beside her, shutting out the prying eyes of the crowd in relief. But it was short-lived, as he was now alone with his wife. Who he had never spoken to before.

“Nice to meet you,” she said brightly. Her accent was recognizably lower class, but the rest of her did not look it. Her dress was ivory, adorned with bows, a plunging dart to emphasize her trim waist, a line of silk buttons from neck to midriff.

“You as well,” he said stiffly, then: “I don’t have much of a luncheon planned.” He'd only just realized. So consumed with the wedding itself, he’d barely thought of what would happen afterwards. “But I employ a very talented cook…”

“Oh, anything will be lovely,” she said cheerfully. “So, tell me about yourself.”

Graves, who had been forced to put his top hot back on while leaving the church, removed it to dab at his perspiring forehead. Oh, how he loathed small talk. “Perhaps Albus told you, I needed to get married in order to secure my father’s inheritance,” he said quickly and then grimaced, realizing too late how rude that must sound. But Queenie did not look perturbed at all.

“Don’t fret yourself, Albus told me everything. You would have married a goat if push came to shove, I’m sure,” she said with a ringing laugh.

Graves had no answer for that. He nervously folded and refolded his handkerchief. 

“I’m surprised you chose me over the goat! Honestly, don’t you know where Albus found me?”  
“A dress shop, isn’t that right?”

“Not exactly high society, and besides –“ she paused, as though catching herself. “But we have time to get to know each other, don’t we?”

Graves nodded, wondering if she were regretting her undoubtedly rash decision already.

“I’ve never been outside of London,” she continued, unconcerned with Graves’s clear reluctance to talk. “It’s quite lovely out here – oh my!”

Gravesend had just come into view.

“That’s not your place, is it?” she asked in amazement.

“Well, it’s also your place as well now.”

Queenie didn’t respond, her mouth forming a perfect circle.

Yet marvelling at her new home only kept her silent for so long and soon she was chattering again. Graves was usually annoyed by persistent talkers but something about Queenie did not put him off. Perhaps it was her general novelty.

“Now this is a fine house, I can’t believe it,” she said. “Albus mentioned you were rich, but damn – oh, I mean, ah, darn.”

She blushed but Graves was quite amazed. He’d never heard a lady curse before. Queenie looked rather nervous, likely because he was meant to find cursing unattractive in a woman. But he found he didn’t really mind it at all.

Upon arrival, the staff had all come out to greet them. He did not have many servants and he hoped he wouldn’t have to hire more. He didn’t like the idea of a full house. Queenie greeted them all exuberantly and while they remained restrained and polite he couldn’t help but notice the shocked looks they exchanged. Their new mistress was clearly closer to their class than his. Graves instructed his cook to make them something to eat, then led Queenie inside.

She seemed even more stunned by the interior of the house. Many of the decorations, furniture, rugs, and art pieces were left over from when his parents had been alive and they were admittedly fine. 

“Goodness, it’s just like a penny dreadful,” she muttered at the sight of his sitting room, windows obscured by thick curtains even in the daytime.

After bidding a servant to let daylight in, Graves helped Queenie remove her veil as he offered her a chair. She kept casting her head around, as though determined to take in every detail.

“If you don’t like any of the decor, you can change anything that displeases you,” he said. “Except my study, I’d like that to stay the same.”

Queenie’s eyes were wide as saucers as she nodded.

Graves examined the length of lace in his hands. “Albus spoke very highly of your talents,” he said carefully.

Queenie looked around at him, smiling a bit sheepishly. “He’s such a flatterer,” she said humbly. “He lent me a bit of money to make a dress that I could marry a marquess in. I couldn’t do it in my usual clothes, could I?”

“You made this?” he said, amazed.

“I had some help,” she conceded, cheeks turning pink all the same.

“Then he did not exaggerate your talents at all,” he said sincerely, and Queenie blushed deeper.

A housemaid arrived presently to tell them luncheon was ready to be served. It was nothing very fancy, as Graves predicted, merely pheasant and potatoes with a simple gravy. But Queenie ate with gusto, exclaiming over the taste as though it were the finest of meals.

“I must tell your cook how good this is,” she said as they finished up, drinking deeply from her glass of wine. Graves had never seen a lady eat so unselfconsciously. The ladies he was used to dealing with would only pick and nibble at their plates.

“She’s also your cook,” he reminded her, and Queenie smiled, pleased. “Please, take your time, get yourself acquainted with the house and grounds. It’s all yours.”

The afternoon was spent showing Queenie every room in the house and he found himself actually enjoying her unrestrained excitement at everything she looked upon. Near dinner time, a carriage arrived bearing Albus and several suitcases.

“I bought you some things to wear,” he told Queenie after greeting her warmly. “I know what you like.”

“Oh, you’re such a darling,” Queenie gushed, kissing him firmly on both cheeks. She followed the servants bearing the trunks up the stairs, eager to view their contents.

“Well?” Albus inquired, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Hmm?”

“You like her, don’t you?”

“She’s very… energetic,” Graves finally conceded.

“You’re already in love, I can tell,” Albus said with a deep sigh. “Otherwise you’d be telling me all her faults.”

“I’m not… in love,” Graves muttered, frowning. “I hardly know her.”

“Such is married life,” Albus said with a grin. “You’ll be writing love sonnets in no time, believe me. This girl is a _catch.”_

Graves could not see himself ever writing sonnets, but he had to admit he liked her well enough. Not that he’d tell Albus that. The man was far too smug already.

Albus stayed for dinner and Graves was content to let him and Queenie carry the conversation. She had changed into a gown of deep amethyst and seemed to possess the ability to discuss fashion for hours, and Albus was more than able to comply. It never occurred to Graves to wonder how they'd come to be so familiar. Albus, or rather His Grace, was afforded the ducal privilege of eccentricity when it came to collecting friends. 

Graves called her energetic and he could see he hadn’t been wrong. She was bright and cheerful, laughed easily and loudly and didn’t even cover her mouth with a dainty hand. He enjoyed watching her giggling with mirth over something Albus said, her cheek dimple on charming display, golden curls dancing around her face. Perhaps he’d made it too obvious, the way he stared, because Albus caught his eye and gave him a look of such smug knowledge that Graves blushed and frowned in annoyance.

For the special occasion, the cook made a rare dessert of an elaborate charlotte russe that had Queenie’s eyes turning big and round again. Graves found himself hoping she’d never stop being delighted.

After dinner, Graves had a drink and cigar with Albus in the sitting room and endured more crowing over the other man’s excellent choice in brides.

“You’re going to love matrimony more than the queen herself, you’ll see,” Albus said, far more pleased with himself than anyone ought to be.

“We’ll see,” Graves muttered, pessimistic as always, but Queenie had gone upstairs to prepare for bed and he found he actually missed her company.

“Your father’s solicitor will be dropping by at some point,” Albus reminded him, and Graves scowled.

“To make absolutely sure I’m actually married and not just pretending?”

“To be sure,” Albus muttered. “Birds of a feather, those two.”

Graves stared into the fire, thoughts consumed by darkness yet again. Even after death, his father had found ways to make his life miserable. Had it not been for him, he might never have gone to South Africa and…

Albus managed to stir him from his brooding and insisted they play cards. It was good distraction, but after a few hands, Albus begged off. “I must get going, and you must get going to bed,” he said with a wink. “It is your wedding night after all.”

Graves blushed and refused to rise to the bait. He did not intend on visiting Queenie that night. He couldn’t imagine imposing on her when they’d only just met. He wouldn’t be that kind of animal. He bid Albus goodnight and retired to his own bedchamber. 

He undressed, pulled on a loose robe but could not manage to fall asleep. With his thoughts whirling, he lit a lamp and pulled out a book. Anything to distract him from the horrors his mind insisted on replaying for him.

 

He was just dozing, glasses sliding down his face, when something roused him from his sleep. At first, he wasn’t sure what woke him, but then he became aware of the presence in his room. He thought he must be dreaming. But the figure in gauzy white moved close, and she was certainly real.

“Madam,” he said in alarm. Queenie’s hair fell loose on her shoulders and she was dressed in only a thin nightgown, unbuttoned at the neck and so fine as to be entirely see-through. Even in the dim firelight he could see the outline of her body. He fumbled with his spectacles, nearly knocking them off his face and onto the floor.

She approached the bed and sat carefully on the end while Graves struggled to cover his bare chest with his robe, heat crawling over his skin while his shock subsided.

“You didn’t visit my bedchamber,” she said in a low voice. She looked rather nervous, cheeks flushed a delicate pink.

“I didn’t – I did not intend –“ he stuttered, awkwardness getting the better of him.

She blinked at him in surprise, mouth falling open. “I thought – it is our wedding night,” she nudged closer, laying a hand on his bare knee. Graves jerked away instinctively.

“I won’t force myself on you like a-a wild beast,” he mumbled, tearing his eyes away from where the neck of her gown fell open, exposing the soft swell of her breast. 

“I see,” Queenie said in a tone that suggested she did not see. “Are you – oh! Hmm.”

Graves didn’t quite understand what conclusion she seemed to come to, but she was moving away. In the golden light, she looked positively alluring -- pale curls gilded by the firelight, white skin like snow beneath the ivory material of her nightgown. His mouth went dry. He carefully looked away.

“Go back to bed,” he said, a bit sharper than he intended.

Queenie did not protest. He didn’t dare look at her long enough to see her expression as she departed, bare feet silent on the soft carpets. Graves covered his face, feeling the heat of his cheeks against his palms. 

Of course she had expected some marital consummation to take place. And perhaps it would have to at some point. But Graves found himself dreading that experience more than the prospect of battle. At Eton, so many of his schoolmates had solicited the company of prostitutes and Graves had refrained from participating. He found the idea abhorrent for several reasons and especially despised the way men looked down on those so-called fallen women, as though they were trash, yet bought their services all the same. As he remained a bachelor, he did not allow himself to fall either. He did not want to be the cause of any woman to lose respectability in the eyes of society. He didn’t think it was at all fair that men could experiment sexually before marriage and women could not. He didn’t brag about it, but there he was, on his wedding night, as celibate as any maiden was expected to be. If Queenie expected him to visit her bedchamber and perform his husbandly duty, he wasn’t sure he’d know how. He knew how it was all supposed to work, more or less. But he was sure there were subtleties he would have no idea how to navigate.

How humiliating, to turn a beautiful woman away. He didn’t think he had made his position at all clear and he didn’t want her to think he rejected her from lack of desire. But the idea of speaking to her frankly about carnal matters was rather terrifying. 

Graves tossed aside his book and put out the lamp. He was certain that finding sleep would be impossible now, but he couldn’t focus on reading enough for his book to distract him. The fireplace crackled as a log broke apart while Graves gazed, unseeing, into the darkness outside his window. Getting married, to anyone, had surely been a terrible mistake.

 

The next morning, Graves went down to breakfast with some trepidation. He would often take breakfast in bed, but since he was a married man now, it seemed prudent to take breakfast with his wife. She was already at the table when he arrived, wearing a pink day dress trimmed in lace. She had been Lady Graves for less than a day and she already looked the part. 

“Good morning!” she said cheerfully as he entered and took his seat. She was applying a liberal coating of jam and clotted cream to a scone. “Tea?”

Graves nodded gratefully and she poured him a steaming cup.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked with a merry smile.

“Yes, thank you. And you?”

As they exchanged pleasantries, Graves tried not to think about the night before and how she had visited his room in barely any clothes. She was modestly dressed this morning, her hair pinned up like any proper lady, but he could vividly recall the shape of her body through translucent cloth, her pale curls loose on her shoulders. How lovely would she look in the daylight, dressed so immodestly? He tried not to imagine it.

Queenie, however, did not seem troubled in the slightest. She hummed under her breath, picking up another scone. He’d never known a lady with such a healthy appetite and found it rather refreshing.

“I thought I’d take you on a tour around the grounds. If that would please you,” he added on hastily, not wanting to make her feel obligated by his whims.

“That sounds delightful,” she said instead, eyes sparkling.

“Do you ride?” he asked, before realizing his error. Surely a former London shop girl would have had little opportunity to learn.

“I – no, but I do have a riding outfit, courtesy of Albus.” She did not look at all abashed, but Graves still felt embarrassed.

“I can take you on my horse,” he said as Queenie began loading cream and jam on yet another scone.

“Your horse would be lovely,” she said, and instead of digging into this third scone she slipped it onto his empty plate and then added a few good-sized slabs of bacon. “Eat up, darling, you’ve got to get your energy up.”

Graves felt oddly touched that she cared whether he ate enough. It was quite a novel experience. Queenie had already proven herself to be quite a talker and Graves found himself on the receiving end of more chatter. He did not, however, mind all that much. She did not expect him to respond over much nor did she prod him for answers and he was content to simply listen. A lovely distraction, she was as pretty to look at as to listen to. She was just as witty as Albus had described her.

After breakfast, they both went to change for a day out on the grounds. Graves wore his customary black with leather riding gloves and knee-length boots. Queenie greeted him in the parlour wearing a very smart and fashionable riding dress, with a coat modelled after a man’s garment but fitted to her slim figure, gleaming black gloves and a lady’s top hat.

“Oh, don’t you look dashing,” she said when she saw him, and Graves could feel his cheeks heat up.

“That is a very nice... dress. A-and you look very fine in it.” He felt his face turn redder still as he fumbled his words, but Queenie grinned as the compliment and did not betray a moment’s awkwardness.

In the stable, Graves’s fine black stallion Fetch was being saddled and brushed by the stable boy. Queenie approached the stable door with noticeable apprehension and Graves knew that Fetch could cut a very imposing figure.

“He may look frightening, but he’s very gentle,” Graves insisted, pulling out a carrot he had brought to feed him and petting his nose.

Fetch snuffled and whinnied, pumping his powerful legs as he devoured the offered treat. Queenie still looked rather nervous.

“Here –“ Graves reached out and took her hand and he felt her fingers tremble. “He won’t hurt you, I promise,” he muttered softly, very carefully nudging her toward the stallion.

She was hesitant, but gradually allowed Graves to guide her hand towards Fetch’s snout.

“Always stay to the side of him,” Graves whispered in her ear, keeping her close so that she wouldn’t get spooked.

He could feel her breathing, her body was so close. She touched Fetch’s nose with her gloved hand. The horse nickered happily, snuffling around her hand for another treat.

“That’s good,” Graves said, pulling out another carrot for Queenie to feed him. “That’s just the sound you want to hear.”

Queenie grinned nervously, biting her lip in a very charming way. She cautiously fed Fetch the carrot, yelping in surprise as his powerful teeth nudged her hand. But then she giggled, eyes crinkled in excitement as she turned to share her joy with Graves. He managed a small smile back. He was not used to smiling for any reason, but Queenie’s happiness was entirely contagious.

“He’s a beauty, isn’t he?” she cooed, petting his thick mane. Fetch whinnied, pleased at being fussed over.

In no time at all, Queenie appeared as comfortable with the animal as though she’d ridden all her life. By then, she was eager to get riding and Graves climbed up on the saddle, bidding the stable boy get a stool to aid Queenie in her own ascent. It took some time, as Queenie was unpracticed and Fetch was quite a steed, but soon she sat astride, fitting snugly on the saddle in front of Graves. He had offered to ride with her as a kind gesture, but he hadn’t considered the logistics of suddenly being so close to her.

 _A carriage,_ he thought belatedly as he laid a hand on her belly to keep her flush against him. _I should have suggested a carriage._ But then he wouldn't have been able to smell the perfume in her hair, or feel how her dress did not have a bustle, leaving only thick layers of fabric separating them.

With the reins in one hand, he bid Fetch to trot. Queenie squealed at the sudden movement and Graves gripped her tightly so she wouldn’t slide off.

“It’s alright,” he said gently, close enough to speak directly in her ear.

“Oh, it’s exciting,” she said, sounding thrilled rather than frightened.

Graves worked the horse up to a gallop and soon Queenie was laughing and shrieking in exhilaration. Graves had excellent control over Fetch, a mighty and powerful beast, as they had shared a close bond since the horse was a colt. Everyone had always said the horse was his double, in looks and temperament, and thus he was called Fetch.

The feel of Queenie’s body against his, moving with the steady gallop of the horse, powerful between his thighs, was very distracting. He felt heat bloom low in his belly and his throat went dry. He felt his prick stir, excited by Queenie’s closeness and the memories of the previous evening. Shame swelled inside him just as quickly, fierce and hot. Luckily Queenie seemed to be having such a good time that she didn’t notice. He dearly hoped her attention would remain elsewhere, and that her skirts were thicker than they felt to him.

Presently, Fetch’s swift pace was starting to tire him out so Graves slowed down to a canter. He found a nice spot of grass under a hornbeam and dismounted before helping Queenie do the same. She was light in his arms, and as he held her slim waist he could feel the excited beat of her heart. He quickly stepped away to retrieve a blanket and their lunch from a saddle bag. Queenie helped spread out the blanket for them to sit and Graves portioned out the servings of cheese, bread and fruit.

“This is so lovely,” she said with a contented sigh. The sun was out, at least for a moment. The grass was green, ruffled slightly in the breeze.

“You like it, then?” he asked hopefully. If she was going to suffer through being married to him, at the very least she should enjoy her surroundings.

“Much better than London. The air is clean here and there’s green things to look at.”

Graves frowned. He’d grown up here, taken the abundance of space and greenery for granted. “That’s good,” he murmured, nervously fiddling with his napkin. “You can have anything you want, you know.”

Queenie glanced at him. She looked wary, but hopeful. “That’s quite a promise.”

“You helped me keep it all, I wouldn’t have it without you. You’re entitled to whatever I have.”

Queenie looked out over the rolling grass to the manor house in the distance, at Fetch grazing nearby. She was silent for a long moment. “I’d like to make some dresses,” she said finally. “Albus bought me lots of nice things, but I also enjoy making things myself. I loved making dresses and hats and gloves from the best materials and I could never wear them myself. I miss it.”

“Anything you want,” Graves replied, trying for a smile. It felt strange, his face unused to the expression. 

Queenie grinned, brightness flooding her face. It made his heart warm to look at. But the feeling was so unfamiliar that he had to look away, embarrassed.

“These look good,” she said, picking up an orange. “Couldn’t get these in Hackney.”

Graves was used to exotic, imported fruits but he didn’t often indulge. He never requested dessert accompany his dinner but Albus was always sending him baskets of oranges from Spain. Graves showed her how to peel the rind and pick apart the sections. Queenie beamed and then expressed her pleasure at the new flavour of the sweet fruit with a soft moan that made Graves feel very warm and self-conscious.

“How delicious,” she enthused, plucking out a fresh section and offering it to Graves. He was about to wave it away, but then she was pressing the tender flesh, shining like a jewel, against his mouth.

Surprised, he parted his lips and allowed her to feed it to him, a blush spreading over his face.

“Divine,” she said, voice low and slightly rough.

The sweetness burst over his tongue as her thumb lingered on his lower lip. He was nearly trembling, body lit up by her closeness, eyes locked on hers as she popped another section into her mouth. Her tongue darted out to swipe at her lower lip, pink and plush and inviting. Graves felt his face catch fire at the sight and he looked down, mortified at his reaction. Surely he could act more like a gentleman in her presence.

After they had eaten, Graves helped her back on Fetch and they explored the grounds more leisurely, as he didn’t want to exhaust the horse. Her closeness, as before, was very tempting. His lip seemed to burn where she had touched him. Soon he found himself longing for a respite from her presence, from the way he’d catch her eye and find himself blushing. 

Back at the house, he sought refuge in his private rooms. Queenie was excited about ordering cloth and other materials to make her dresses and he left her to it. As much as he relied on his father’s vast fortune, he wasn’t doing much with it besides keeping to himself in Gravesend. If she wanted to spend his money, let her do as she pleased.

Alone at last, Graves gratefully poured himself a whiskey and collapsed in a chair by the window. His clothes felt too constricting and he loosened his collar, tugging open the top few buttons. He felt unnaturally heated, overcome by the desire Queenie’s brief contact had inspired in him. Her cheerfulness, her enthusiasm and pure joy at everything in his world was like light in the darkness. He’d been so alone, so cut off from humanity. But her presence was a naked flame, warming him but also scorching. 

He let his head fall back after taking a deep drink from his whiskey. The liquor loosened the tightness and anxiety in his chest and he felt his body relax, then grow all the more hot and enflamed. His mind had a tendency to replay the things he most wanted to suppress. Usually it was blood and fire and men screaming as they died, but today it was far more amorous and sensual. Her fingers brushing his mouth, a glint of something knowing and suggestive in her eye. Thinking back to her appearing in his room, offering herself to him, he knew he wanted her passionately as much as he knew he must resist. She must not feel indebted to him, forced to repay his monetary endowments with her body. It was not right.

Still, his body burned for her like dry kindling on the bonfire. And he was alone, blissfully alone. Onanism was a terrible sin that he had valiantly resisted during his many years of celibacy. Though his youth had been plagued by persistent and all-consuming lust that had often driven him to that sin of self-abuse, his passions had cooled with age. Yet now he felt like a young man again, stimulated beyond endurance by the brush of a young lady’s hand against his skin. While he had wanted many women in his life, he had never allowed himself to indulge. But then, he had never experienced a desire so potent as what he felt for Queenie Goldstone.

Queenie _Graves._

The whiskey made it easier to give in. Leaning back in his chair, he unbuttoned his waistcoat and pulled up his undershirt just enough to release the clasp on his trousers. His prick was stiff and aching; he cried out faintly as he gripped it, so close to climax already despite barely touching himself. He could smell her hair, taste the bright burst of citrus as her soft skin caressed him. Biting his lip hard, that lip that had touched her, his hand moved with increased fervour until he came with a broken moan, scrambling for his handkerchief to catch the mess before he ruined his waistcoat. 

As the bliss of his climax abated, the shame crept in. A man grown, far past the lusty passions of his youth, yet here he was, debasing himself to thoughts of a pure young lady who did not deserve such treatment. He felt very low indeed, like the beastly scum who stalked the streets in search of victims in lurid penny dreadfuls. Surely she wouldn’t look at him with such fondness if she knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from "Some Slender Rest" by Two Gallants.
> 
> "Fetch" is an archaic word for doppelgänger, hence why Morgan suggested the name for Graves's horse.
> 
> You probably noticed that Queenie is going by the name Goldstone -- I haven't uh, goy-washed?? her I promise. However, Victorian England was a very anti-semitic place. This is a plot point that gets resolved later, never fear. Queenie is still Jewish and I tried to be respectful to that while being a little bit historically accurate.


	2. Chapter 2

The next few weeks were filled with more human interaction than Graves usually permitted. Albus was his one true friend, but he couldn't see him in person every day. Typically he liked to keep to himself, hiding away from even the servants, but with Queenie in the house, things were different. She flitted around like a hothouse butterfly, colourful and light and brimming with energy. And she liked to talk.

Graves proved to be a good listener. He didn’t interject or break her constant stream of words and this seemed to suit her just fine. That didn’t mean he wasn’t paying attention, however, and this seemed to take her off guard.

“The taffeta gown you were working on, how is it coming along?” he asked over breakfast one morning to her obvious surprise.

“You were listening when I blathered on about my gown?” she said with a slight laugh.

“Of course I was,” he said, brows knit in confusion.

“It’s coming along fine, thank you.” Her bafflement remained, but she looked pleased all the same.

“You were very excited when the material arrived.” 

Judging by her enthusiasm, his reminder was unnecessary. “I’ve never made something for myself from something so fine. Kitty has been helping me, she’s a wonderful seamstress,” she continued, referring to her lady’s maid that Albus had helped her hire. “I think I will wear it to Albus’s party, since we’re on the subject.”

Graves frowned despite himself. Queenie was as excited at the notion of Albus’s upcoming party as Graves was not. He didn’t like parties and had always declined Albus’s invitations, not that that had stopped the man from sending them. Now that Queenie was also invited, he did not have the heart to say no, not when she was so clearly looking forward to it.

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself,” he said evenly. From what he heard, Albus threw lavish parties, with food and dancing and socializing. It sounded absolutely dreadful to Graves.

Queenie smiled brightly, eyes dancing as she sipped her tea. They had spent every morning and evening together, often taking the afternoon to have their private time. Despite how personable and extroverted Queenie was, she did not intrude when Graves indicated he needed some alone time. Her intuitive nature was a blessing when Graves often found it difficult to express himself.

That afternoon, while Queenie was in her chambers sewing, Graves had a most unwelcome visitor. Gellert Grindelwald was his father’s solicitor and the probate of his will, and Graves found him detestable. The man had seemed to take smug pleasure in reading out that tricky clause that had caused Graves so much trouble and agony. He must have hoped Graves would never get married and thus forfeit all his rights, leaving him as the executor.

Graves greeted him graciously enough, perhaps not doing a good enough job to hide his loathing. Grindelwald had a vile, oily demeanour that Graves despised. 

“You seem to have redecorated the place,” he said, his faint German accent filled with mocking.

“My wife has seen fit to add her personal touch,” Graves said coldly.

Grindelwald sniffed and Graves scowled at him.

“Is there a particular reason for your visit?”

“Your choice of bride is very… interesting, my lord,” he drawled.

“I don’t recall my father’s will stipulating that my wife needed to be of a certain class,” he said firmly, and Grindelwald grinned horribly.

“Perhaps, but there is one thing that must come of this… union," he said, filling the word with disgust. He clearly did not value Queenie at all, an opinion surely based on her low birth. Graves had the urge to strangle him.

“That is?”

“Progeny, of course.”

Dread filled Graves’s chest as Grindelwald held out a legal document and Graves took it automatically.

“Within the year, your little wife must produce some….”

“Children?”

“I was going to say spawn.”

Graves gave him a nasty look as he scanned the document. Of course his father didn’t want him to just be married, he wanted children as well. He wanted his legacy to continue. 

“So if your wife does not manage to produce any children, you may be in trouble,” Grindelwald continued with a smug grin. “Women of the lower classes often acquire infections that prevent child-bearing, or so I’ve heard –“

“That’s quite enough,” Graves said sharply, enraged by Grindelwald’s crass comments. He knew the man was trying to get a rise out of him and was rewarded with another infuriating smirk for his troubles. “Thank you for informing me of this requirement, Mr. Grindelwald,” he said with icy politeness, turning to ring the bell to summon a servant. “I'll have you shown out.”

Grindelwald made sounds of annoyance at being ushered out so hastily, but Graves was eager to be rid of him. He did not want to expose Queenie to the man’s vileness.

With Grindelwald thankfully on his way, Graves retired to his study to brood. It was only to be expected that his father would not let him off so easy; he should have seen this coming. He had hoped to never impose sexually upon his wife, but it would make their union all for naught if he didn’t. Should he tell her? It would be beyond boorish to obligate her, make her feel like she had no choice in the matter. With no easy way out in sight, he felt terribly conflicted.

Agonized, Graves poured himself a drink. It seemed to be his default action when the world became too difficult. Run away and hide. Pushing away his present problem, he thought instead of South Africa. The band had played “Kiss Me, Mother Darling” as they marched. Spirits had been high and so many of them lay dead in the morning. It was over so quickly, but seemed to stretch on forever, screams of agony and death echoing through the pass.

_Kiss me mother kiss your darlin'_  
_Lay my head upon your breast_  
_Throw your loving arms around me_    
_I am weary let me rest…_

Pain encroached on Graves’s head, spurred on by memories of destruction too potent to bear. He’d felt so weak, so powerless. And for what? Why had they deserved to take the land from the Boers, or the Zulu in the years before, why did they need to do any of it? So much death, for no reason he could understand. His hand shook, splattering whiskey across the table, spotting the legal document Grindelwald had given him with amber specks. Graves crumpled it up in anger, but his hand shook so much that he dropped it.

He stood up and paced the length of his study restlessly. Sweat prickled his forehead and he brushed the damp hair away from his face, hands trembling like they had that morning as he loaded his rifle. He felt stifled, overheated, constricted by the simple cloth of his shirt collar. He fumbled at the buttons to pry them loose so he could breathe.

_I am weary let me rest…_

There was a knock at the door, startling him so badly that he needed to steady himself on a chair back to stay upright. “Yes?”

“Darling, it’s me,” came Queenie’s voice from the other side of the door. “I wanted to ask your opinion on something.”

“I – I can’t –“ he stuttered, thrown by her sudden appearance when he was so anxious and vulnerable.

“Are you alright?” she said, voice now strained with concern.

The door handle jiggled and Graves tried to warn her away, but his voice seemed stuck in his throat. She looked more lovely than ever, golden and shining like the sun breaking through clouds. 

“Dear me, do you need a doctor?” she exclaimed at the sight of him, and Graves shook his head.

“I’m fine, really, I need to lie down.”

Queenie did not look convinced. She rushed to his side and took his arm. He was shaking so badly that he leaned into her despite himself, his heart beating so fast he was sure it would burst out of his chest. He knew that he was at home, in Yorkshire, not on the battlefield in Laing’s Nek, but his body did not seem to make that distinction. 

“Darling, you’re shaking like a leaf,” Queenie said gently, voice pitched high with worry.

He collapsed into the chair before him, unable to stay upright, head dropping into his hands as fear and anxiety coursed through him. Queenie rubbed his back, but even her presence could not soothe him.

“Oh dear, oh no,” she muttered, and he couldn’t make himself speak to reassure her. “Kitty! Bain!”

If only he could speak, he could tell her it was no use to call for the servants. Of course his valet arrived swiftly, but the sight of Graves shaking like a frightened child would not be unusual to his eyes.

“He needs a doctor!”

“It’s alright, my lady,” Bain said in a pacifying voice. “Give him a moment or two.”

Queenie, unheeding Bain’s calming tone, continued to fret at Graves's side. He trembled fitfully as he tried to regain control of himself. Despite how vehemently he told himself he was safe and not in danger, his body remained convinced that he was going to die. A cool, damp cloth was placed on his neck and he jumped at the contact, but the sensation was soothing. His refilled glass of whiskey was pushed into his hand and with a great deal of trouble he managed to sip it without spilling any on himself.

Gradually, his rational self reclaimed the battleground of his mind. Exhausted by the mental struggle, he could do nothing but slump in his seat, cool water dampening the back of his shirt. Queenie was still beside him, now clutching his hand.

“He has these spells, my lady,” Bain explained, cautiously. “He always recovers in time.”

Graves was mortified beyond words. He had dearly hoped that Queenie would not be witness to his enfeebled breakdowns or see how he trembled like a newborn colt, mind transported back to the battlefield. Queenie was still playing nursemaid, taking the damp cloth to dab at his sweat-soaked face.

“I’m alright,” he finally managed to say, too humiliated to look at her.

“Do you need anything?” she said softly, fingers gently rubbing the underside of his wrist. Her touch was like a balm; more than anything he wanted her to keep touching him.

“I think I'll go lie down,” he said instead, not wanting to impose himself on her any longer.

He required Bain to help him up to his room. Once he was laid on his bed, clothes loosened so he could breathe easier, curtains drawn to block out any sunlight, he felt improved. Still, the shame burned deep in his bones. Why must he be so fragile? Other men bore the destruction of war with dignity and strength, but he seemed unable to shake the horror of it. It haunted him like the very memory of Africa, the lands his people had no right to, the blood they shed for no reason at all except greed.

_Throw your loving arms around me  
I am weary let me rest…_

 

The following week, Graves was required to don a top hat and tails and make an appearance at Albus’s wretched party. Queenie appeared constantly on the verge of exploding with excitement. After he had humiliated himself in front of her, she hadn’t mentioned it outright but she seemed to treat him with a special tenderness, touching his wrist more than usual and often kissing his cheek when they said good morning or good night.

Graves tried to put it out of his mind. With the upcoming party, at least he had something else to be anxious about. He detested crowds, always had, and the idea of being required to socialized with people he didn’t like very much was agonizing.

And there was Queenie. Though he knew Albus would welcome her without an ounce of prejudice, he didn’t have the same faith in the other guests. The gentry he was familiar with from his childhood of forced interactions were rude and snobby and bigoted. He knew Queenie was not naïve, but he hated to think of her losing her smile.

After much anxiety, she emerged from her chambers wearing the most beautiful taffeta gown. It was robin’s egg blue, trimmed in ivory lace with a ruffled train, voluminous bustle and a deep square neckline that was very nearly scandalous but managed not to be. The front was offset with an ivory silk panel and she wore a black velvet band bearing a white cameo around the pale column of her throat. Her golden hair was artfully arranged in ringlet curls and Graves found himself rather lost for words.

“You look –“ he stuttered awkwardly, clearing his throat a few times. “You look lovely.”

Queenie beamed, clearly pleased with herself.

“My lady sewed it all herself, can you believe it?” said Kitty in awe, draping an ermine trimmed half-cape over her pale shoulders. 

“Kitty helped with the really fussy bits,” Queenie said bashfully, cheeks a delightful pink. “I couldn’t have done it without her.”

Kitty reddened, pleased with the compliment as Graves held out his arm and Queenie took it with a glowing smile. If only he had to endure her company alone, he would be happy. 

Queenie chattered happily the entire coach ride and Graves was almost drawn into her enthusiasm. She had never been to a lavish ball so of course it was exciting, but Graves had endured so many of them he could only dread it. But Queenie also enjoyed people. She liked to talk and tell stories and was so charming it was impossible not to listen. Surely she would be at home in any given party, if only the partygoers accepted her.

Graves’s anxiety was mounting as they arrived at Albus’s estate, Hogwarts. It was an old, lavish castle and though Graves found the luxury quite overwhelming, Queenie’s eyes lit up at once.

“Albus told me stories about his house,” she said with reverence, “but it’s so much grander in person.”

Many guests had already arrived. If they didn't cut him neither did they greet him with much warmth, eyeing Queenie on his arm with guarded curiosity. The ballroom was decked out with glittering decorations that made Queenie grin in delight. There were already couples spinning in time with the music and tables fairly sagged from the weight of so much food and drink.

Graves acquired champagne for them both, trying to ignore the many eyes he felt were on him. He must be a curiosity, practically a hermit hiding away from the world, finally emerging with his socially unacceptable wife beside him. 

But it was Albus who approached them first. He wore one of his ridiculous suits, all lace and purple velvet. He kissed Queenie warmly on both cheeks and greeted Graves with the same enthusiasm.

“I am so happy you made it,” he said. “You especially, Graves. He’s usually so terribly shy, if you’ll believe it,” he said to Queenie who giggled nervously while Graves flushed.

“Yes, you got me here,” he said briskly, already ready to leave.

“Let me introduce you to some of my friends, Lady Graves,” Albus said, taking Queenie’s arm and leading her away.

Graves let her go, hoping that Albus’s halo of privilege would shield her from poor treatment. But he was alone now and felt very ill at ease. He was beginning to sweat in his anxiety and immediately looked for another door where he could escape and get some air.

But he was stopped in his tracks by a young man he recognized as Henry Shaw, the scion of a very wealthy American family. Graves knew him somewhat, but hadn’t seen or spoken to him in years, and when he greeted him it was stiffly, wishing such social niceties were not necessary.

“I couldn’t help but notice your lovely young wife,” Shaw said, and Graves grit his teeth.

“We’re only just married, quite recently.”

“I heard,” he said, giving Graves a significant look. “I also heard Albus found her in the gutter.”

Graves felt redness climb over his face, but it wasn’t embarrassment. It was rage.

“You wouldn’t know it by looking at her,” Shaw said thoughtfully. “But I suppose it must come out when her skirts are 'round her waist.”

Graves could feel his hand tremble as he reached out and grabbed Shaw by the collar, but his voice was steady as he spoke. “Don’t you dare speak that way about my wife again,” he said in a dangerous undertone, “or you'll be choosing between steel or shot faster than you can say 'satisfaction.'”

Shaw stared at him in shock, his mouth twitching in confused amusement. "Aren't duels illegal in England?" His nervous grin soon twisted into fear as Graves stared him down.

“Is that understood?”

“Y-yes,” Shaw stammered and Graves finally let him go. He was shaking with the anger inside him and he badly wanted to throttle the other man. But he didn’t and Shaw slunk away, looking vaguely shaken. No doubt he would recover and laugh about it to his friends later, but Graves simply couldn’t let him speak so lewdly about his wife with such brazen disregard. Still rather heated, he brushed aside the hair on his face and drank deeply from his champagne flute.

Feeling more self-conscious than ever, he went in search of an exit and found a side door that led to an empty balcony. He stayed there for a long while, enjoying the dark and solitude. After what seemed like a long time, his self-imposed isolation was broken by the arrival of Albus.

“There you are, old chap,” he declared. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, of course you’re out here hiding.”

“Must I come back inside?” he said, not realizing until the words were out of his mouth how petulant he sounded. 

“Yes, you do. Queenie is charming absolutely everyone and if you don't hop to it I think someone will try to steal her away.”

Surprised, Graves followed him back into the ballroom. Indeed, on the far side of the dance floor, Queenie was surrounded by a small crowd of both men and women. She was in the middle of some story or other and the group seemed enraptured.

“Well, I told him passing off discounted calico for Egyptian cotton was a terrible idea, but of course he didn’t listen to me,” she was saying.

“So what happened?” a lady asked breathlessly.

“He lost five hundred pounds on the whole lot! Actually he lost four hundred ninety-five pounds, which I predicted down to the shilling, I even showed him how I did the maths.” The group all tittered with nervous laughter while Queenie grinned. “Goodness, his face was red. But you know how men are.”

“Oh? How are we?” said a gentleman, amused.

Queenie gave him a sly look as though sizing him up. “They listen and listen but they don’t hear a thing.”

The man laughed as though she were being ridiculous and Queenie laughed along with him.

“Now, how did I know how much he’d lose on his investment, were you listening?”

The man paused, thinking. And when he couldn’t answer, the group burst into peals of laughter. Graves, who had been observing from a short distance, broke into the group to stand by her side.

“Your wife has been very entertaining,” said another young lady he recognized as Lady Leta Lestrange.

“So I see,” Graves said.

Queenie slipped her arm through his. “Everyone’s been very welcoming,” she said brightly.

“Personally I’m shocked that you’d marry such a person,” Lady Lestrange said, sipping her drink daintily.

“And what do you mean by that?” he said sharply, already on the defensive. He knew how Leta could be, proud as a peacock and cold as an eel.

“I mean, she’s very talkative,” she said primly. “We all know how taciturn you can be, Percival.”

Graves didn’t respond, feeling his cheeks turn red.

“I think he’s a wonderful person to talk to,” Queenie piped up, and Lady Lestrange raised her eyebrows.

“Oh?”

“He doesn’t interrupt me,” Queenie said with a happy grin, and everyone chuckled.

Graves managed a lopsided smile. At least Queenie could find something to compliment him on.

Lady Lestrange was eyeing her carefully. “That’s a lovely dress you’re wearing,” she said, causing Queenie to grin. “Did you buy it in that shop of yours?”

“No, I made it,” she said to coos of admiration from several ladies.

“Surely you got the pattern somewhere,” Lady Lestrange continued. 

“No, I designed it myself,” Queenie insisted.

Graves supposed it was a very fashionable design because the other ladies complimented her excellent taste but Lady Lestrange looked like she had just swallowed a lemon.

“Percival,” Queenie said to him, ignoring Lady Lestrange's annoyed look completely. “Will you dance with me?”

“Of course,” he said, unable to refuse her although he didn’t enjoy dancing.

Out on the floor, he took her in his arms. Having her this close was only a reminder of all the feelings and desires he had been trying so hard to repress. He slipped a hand around her slender waist and she stood just a handbreadth away from him, her eyes boring into his. He hadn’t danced in ages, but the steps came back to him easily.

“Are you having a nice time?” he asked awkwardly, glad she was wearing gloves so she wouldn’t notice how his palm had started to sweat.

“I’m having a marvellous time,” she said with a smile. “Everyone was a bit strange at first, but I can win over anyone. Even Lady Lestrange.”

Graves smirked, delighted by her positive outlook. “People here can be a bit… snobby.”

“That’s an understatement,” Queenie said with a giggle. “But like I said, I’ll talk them into submission. Like giving carrots to your horse.”

Graves had to laugh at that. Which was amazing in itself. Him, actually laughing at a ball.

“You’re a very good dancer,” Queenie said, smiling demurely. She had that look in her eye again, tender but suggestive.

“So are you,” he said, throat going a bit dry.

Queenie shrugged, but she seemed to move a fraction closer, the bust of her bodice brushing the front of his waistcoat. He caught her eye and blushed. It was like she was trying to tease him.

A few hours later, the strain of having to talk to people was beginning to truly wear on him. Queenie, understandably, was still the center of attention. She was a novelty after all but was also pretty and fashionable and vivacious. Graves was happy to hang in the shadows beside her but still, he longed for more peaceful surroundings.

“You’d like to go home, wouldn’t you?” Queenie touched his arm lightly.

“Is it that obvious?” he said with a rueful smirk.

She smiled fondly. “Yes, but you’ve been trying your best. Let’s get you home.”

Queenie said goodbye to all her new friends and some of them sounded truly sincere when they asked her to write or offered invitations to dine with them. Albus was off somewhere, occupied with his own business, and Graves was itching to be on his way.

In the carriage, Queenie was still grinning, humming the tune to the waltz that had been playing when they left. “What a lovely party,” she said with a happy sigh.

“It was very… crowded,” Graves said, struggling to come up with a single thing he liked about it.

“Well, we don’t have to go to any more if you don’t want to,” she said with a kind smile, patting his arm. “It was so good of you to come to this one.”

Graves took her hand, feeling somewhat guilty. “I shouldn’t hide away from the world so much,” he said. “If you like going out, I should make an effort and go with you.”

“Not if you don’t enjoy yourself!”

“There are other places to go,” he remarked thoughtfully. “The opera, for one.”

“You’d take me to the opera?” Queenie said with a halting grin.

“If you like.” Her smile was all he really needed. Something about it filled him with such a calming warmth. “Then I will.”

 

Months passed and Graves found himself settling into married life better than he ever could have imagined. Queenie was an excellent companion. She could read his moods better than anyone and never pushed her company on him when she could tell he wanted to be left alone. Her excitement over anything and everything never seemed to dim. Whether it was a new ottoman, a fancy dessert, or a brilliant sunset, she was bursting with joy and exuberance. Graves found it very endearing.

He took her to the opera as promised. She wore another glittering gown, looking so ravishing that he actually felt proud to be on her arm. She laughed and smile openly without hiding modestly behind a fan and she drew every eye, whether it was haughty disapproval or open admiration. And Queenie’s unbridled enjoyment of the show made him unspeakably happy. Every new experience was a joy to her and he wanted to keep showering her with anything that would make her smile.

But he still did not visit her bedchamber to consummate their union. He knew it must happen eventually or they would lose everything. The comfortable life they had built together in just a few short months; all of Queenie’s beautiful dresses; the décor she had bought for the common rooms; the grounds she loved so much. If she didn’t get pregnant within the year, they’d lose it all. But he was terrified of upsetting their delicate bound. He didn’t want to surprise or ambush her, but the thought of bringing it up in the daytime filled him with embarrassment and dread.

Another thing was his fits of anxiety. They seemed to cripple him less since Queenie came into his life, but he still found himself caught up in them sometimes. He’d get lost in his own mind, trapped in the prison of his past and the fear would overwhelm him. He tried to keep them from her, but sometimes he could not. Dabbing his face with cool water, she would always stay by his side until the anxiety passed. She was gentle and caring as an angel, but his vulnerability in her presence still filled him with shame.

As did his nights fraught with dreams and nightmares. Some nights he would sleep peacefully, unaffected by nightmares of bloodshed, until inevitably the terrible night terrors would return, waking him up gasping for air, bathed in icy sweat and shaking horribly. Such nights were nothing in comparison to waking up from a dream of Queenie’s skin against his, her mouth, her breasts, her hands. His cock, hard and leaking, demanded to be touched and sometimes he would give in, crying out his passion as he thought of her. Hot shame consumed him after these nights and he found it hard to look her in the eye come morning. 

Still, he was more content that he had been in years. Truly he had underestimated the benefits of a real companion. His self-imposed exile had seemed so perfect for him, but Queenie was truly like a campfire in the darkest forest, providing warmth and comfort he had never thought he needed.

One afternoon, he found Queenie wandering in the portrait gallery. He didn’t like to go there himself; all those portraits of his ancestors, so many generations of Graveses staring down at him, solemn and disapproving, just made him more inclined to brood. She had found the portraits of himself and his parents, looking up at them with her usual quizzical intensity. Graves frowned at the familiar faces. These were the paintings he was least inclined to look upon.

“You look like your father,” she remarked.

It was true. His father’s face, softened by the painter’s kind brush, bore the same heavy brow and fierce jaw. His father had been stouter in real life; the portrait hadn’t truly captured that. His mother’s face looked more like he remembered it: solemn, pale, and pinched. She had once been pretty, but a hard and loveless life had turned her cold.

“Oh, goodness, how old were you then?”

Queenie was referring to the portrait that had been commissioned for his majority. He couldn’t recall exactly how accurate a likeness it was, but it was shocking to see his own face look so young. “I must have been 21.”

His face had been so soft, so smooth. The painter had captured his strong jaw and bushy brows, the small brown moles on his cheeks, but he thought he may have exaggerated the plushness of his mouth and his large, dewy-looking eyes. He thought he looked ridiculously young and soft, more pretty than how he had wanted to look at that age. The small, almost delicate nose added to the effect. He had wanted to look strong and rugged. Manly. Now he simply looked old, grey, and worn out.

Lost in thought, he was startled by Queenie’s voice beside him. “You were quite a handsome young man, weren’t you?” she muttered a bit dreamily. “Not that anything’s changed, of course.” She gave him a sly look and Graves felt his cheeks pink up. He didn’t see much of his current self in this portrait. He felt entirely changed.

“I have something for you,” she murmured, and Graves tore his eyes away from his younger self to look at her.

“Do you?”

“Yes, a present. Come along.” She took his hand and led him back out of the gallery and up the stairs. He couldn’t help but enjoy the touch of her hand, small and warm in his. He was surprised when she brought him in the direction of her private chambers.

“Madam,” he said cautiously, then felt foolish. She was his wife after all.

She gave him a look and he felt even more foolish. “You can call me Queenie, dear,” she said with a giggle. “Come here.”

Into her private bedroom they went, which she had decorated in shades of pink and gold. Gilt wallpaper and pink damask curtains trimmed in gold fringe. It was a very charming aesthetic and the curtains were thrown back, allowing bright sunlight to pour in. It was such a contrast to his own drab chambers, done in dour shades of grey and black with the curtains drawn to block out hateful daylight.

The bed was especially distracting with its mauve quilt thrown back invitingly, revealing snow white sheets and down pillows. He tore his eyes away and focused on Queenie presenting him with a folded bundle wrapped in brown paper.

“I do hope you like it,” she said, looking a bit shy.

Graves blinked in surprise and unfolded the bundle. Beneath the paper was a very fine silk waistcoat. It was black, as he preferred, but the material had been embroidered with black silk thread, giving it a very subtle yet attractive design. The silver buttons gleamed and Graves ran his hand over the material, in awe of the craftsmanship.

“Well?” Queenie said anxiously, and Graves looked up.

“It’s beautiful. Magnificent, even.”

Queenie’s face broke into a wide grin and she clapped her hands in her glee.

“Did you make this?” he said, still examining the exacting detail.

“Of course I did,” she said cheerfully. “I wanted to make you something nice.”

Graves was quite touched. He’d been given presents before, but not many. His family didn’t believe in gift-giving and while they provided more money than he could spend, thoughtful gifts were out of the question.

“Thank you,” he said, voice slightly choked from emotion. “It’s very – thank you.”

Queenie beamed and clutched his hand. He wanted to reach out and hug her, but a part of him resisted.

“Now try it on, I want to be sure it fits,” she said. Before he knew what was happening, Queenie was tugging at the buttons on the waistcoat he was currently wearing.

“What, here?” he said anxiously. 

But she only continued to undress him. Blushing furiously, Graves allowed her to strip him of his waistcoat and then help him into the one she’d made for him. It did fit perfectly and Queenie giggled in delight. Graves found his reflection in the mirror above Queenie’s vanity and he admired the effect. It fit so well he looked slimmer than usual, and the beautiful embroidery was very fetching.

“I can always tell a person’s measurements by looking at them,” she said with pride, hands skimming his sides. “Don’t you look handsome.”

Graves felt very warm. He could reach out and – “It’s beautiful,” he muttered, stepping away. “I’ll wear it tonight at dinner.”

“Alright,” she said, looking slightly put out.

Graves left in a hurry, eager to be alone and regain control of himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Some mornings, Graves's need to be alone turned desperate. Queenie would come to him in his dreams, soft and alluring, and having breakfast with her, sharing light conversation as if he hadn’t just dreamed about losing himself in her, would be too much.

Early, just after dawn, Graves donned his riding clothes and had the stable boy ready Fetch for a turn around the grounds. He rode hard as the morning sun breached the clouds, brilliant gold and orange. The dream that had woken him in the early hours of the morning was not like the others. Or, it was too similar. It was the Boer village he’d seen burning in the distance, set aflame by the preceding cavalry. In life, he had walked through the charred homesteads and seen the bodies of women and children among the Boer guerrillas they’d been tracking. In his dream, he found Queenie in the burned house, her face pale and lifeless, smeared with soot, her golden hair burned away. He woke with fear and sorrow choking him and he lay gasping, heart hammering an unrelenting rhythm in his chest.

Out on the grounds, he let the crisp morning air fill his lungs to bursting as Fetch, unable to sustain the brutal pace, slowed to a canter. Graves let him halt and climbed off, allowing the poor beast to rest. He fell to the dewy grass, panting and feeling like a hollow shell, a poor reproduction of his former self. Like a vase that had once been fine but time had weathered it to unloveliness, dooming it to remain empty of flowers. He watched Fetch nose around the thick grass, recalling how his riding teacher had compared their looks and temperament. Fetch was getting on in years, but he remained strong and virile all the same. Graves felt like a frail ghost in comparison.

Lost in his melancholy, it was only deep hunger pangs that spurred him to head back to the house. The sun had climbed into the sky, half-obscured by clouds. He needed to change and clean himself of the dirt, sweat, and grass before he could sit down and eat, so he headed for his chambers. In the hallway, he ran into Queenie, wearing a pretty pink frock.

“There you are, I missed you at breakfast.”

“I went out for an early ride,” he muttered evasively. 

“Are you feeling blue, darling?” Her brow creased in concern.

“I’m fine,” he said sternly, refusing to let her see him crack.

Queenie did not look convinced, but she didn’t push him further and he hastily escaped to his bedroom. He called for a basin of cool water and gratefully cleaned his face, loosening his collar and letting it drip down the back of his shirt. Fear burnt through him, powerful and unwelcome. He did not want to be haunted by the past or the future. He did not want to think about Queenie, dead in his arms. 

Hands shaking, he disrobed and called his valet Bain to help him redress for lunch. Queenie, already in the dining room, was tucking into leftover roast chicken with bread, butter and hard cheese. Graves joined her, struggling to act natural.

“I saw the most beautiful butterfly in the garden,” Queenie said casually. “I wish I knew what it was called.”

Grateful, Graves helped himself to a portion of chicken. “My father had some nature books with illustrations in the library,” he told her. “Let’s take a look after lunch.”

Queenie smiled, and he felt warmer than he had laying in the morning sun.

Once they had eaten, they headed to the library. His father had amassed a vast collection of books but Graves had hardly been in there since the old man passed. He fished his spectacles out of his breast pocket as he browsed the shelves for the right volume. He couldn’t help but notice how the rows of books looked far less dusty and ill-used as they once had.

“I might have done a little poking around,” Queenie admitted. “I like books.”

Graves offered her a half smile. “You can take anything you like,” he said. “They’d just sit here otherwise.”

Finally, he located the book on English butterflies he knew would be there. He went to the window for sunlight to read by so they might pour over the pages, searching for the butterfly Queenie had seen. With their heads bent close together, Graves became very aware of her curls brushing his face when she turned her head, of the smell of her skin. He wanted to reach out and touch her so much his fingers trembled minutely as he turned the pages. But Queenie didn’t seem to notice, intent as she was on the illustrations.

“It was a bit like that, but it had purple on its wing,” she muttered, brow furrowed in concentration.

Graves could not even focus on the colourful butterflies on the page. Queenie’s loveliness was far too distracting and it seemed to consume his senses.

“Oh, there it is!” Queenie pointed to one of the pictures. “Purple emperor, how lovely.”

“It says it’s quite rare,” Graves said, reading the notes accompanying the illustration.

“How special then! You should have seen it, it was beautiful. Large as my hand and such a vivid purple.”

Graves couldn’t help but smile, charmed at her enthusiasm.

“Now there’s an even lovelier sight,” she said, face still very close to his. “A smile on your face.”

Graves felt that smile quickly drop away as self-consciousness stole over him. He felt his brows pull together as he frowned despite himself.

“Oh dear, I made you shy again,” Queenie whispered, reaching out to carefully remove his glasses from his face. She folded them and set them aside on an end table.

Graves was trapped between her and the window ledge. He felt his face heat up as Queenie seemed to get closer. “Madam – uh, Queenie –“ he began, stuttering in anxiety.

“Why do you run away from me?” she asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

He tried not to look at her, but she was so close. When he turned his head, his lips brushed hers as if on accident. She was so warm. It felt like something broke inside him, something that had grown very thin and fragile over time. He pressed his mouth to hers, letting the book fall to the floor as he cupped her face in his hands. Like the rest of her, her lips were unbelievably warm, and so soft. He groaned quietly, deepening the kiss, and she pressed herself fully against him. Clinging to her as if he might be swept away at any moment, her tongue caressing the inside of his mouth, he moaned against her, clutching at her waist.

They somehow got turned around until Queenie was pressed against the window ledge. She pulled herself up to sit and then Graves found himself cradled between her legs, caught up in her skirts as she rucked them up to make room. His insides seemed to be boiling, but he wouldn't let that stop him. He kissed her fiercely, and when he could kiss her mouth no more he kissed her face, and she moaned his name softly. He kissed her neck and she tugged at the buttons on her dress, exposing the pale sweep of her collarbones, the plush softness of her breasts spilling over the ridge of her corset.

Graves faltered, his heart beating so hard he felt faint, but he couldn’t pull himself away from her, so entangled in her arms was he. Queenie stroked the back of his neck as he lay his head on her chest; he could feel her own heart beating. Just as fast as his own.

“What’s wrong, darling?” she said, voice husky. 

It took Graves a long moment to find his voice. “I did not – I did not intend to ravish you,” he muttered.

“What if I want you to ravish me?” she said lightly.

Graves looked up at her in surprise and her eyes were full of mischief.

Then her expression softened and she cupped his face in her hands. “I’ve been waiting for you for months. I wasn’t sure if you wanted me.”

“I’ve wanted you desperately,” he admitted hoarsely.

“Then what’s the matter?”

“I want – want to be a proper husband to you. For – for your first time.”

“Oh honey,” she breathed, and leaned in to kiss both his eyelids and then his mouth tenderly. “Let me tell you something. I was – well, I was engaged before.”

Graves looked at her in amazement, struck dumb.

Worrying her lip, she avoided his gaze as she said, “He d-died. Before we were wed. But we didn’t – we didn’t wait for the wedding night.”

“Oh,” was all Graves could manage to say.

Queenie looked up at him imploringly. “Does that repel you?”

Graves thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t see why it should.”

Queenie grinned hesitantly, that sweet smile that made him want her more than ever. He felt so foolish, worrying over something so trivial. With his face still in her hands, she pulled him close for another tender kiss that became much more heated in moments. He was still nestled between her thighs and he could feel the swell of her breasts against his chest as he pulled her tighter against him. The kiss broke and they pulled apart, breathing laboured.

“Queenie,” he muttered, anxiety growing again. “You must know that I am – I haven’t –" He could barely look at her and Queenie’s eyes grew large as he continued to stammer.

“Darling, do you mean to say you're a maiden?” she said with amusement and Graves had to laugh at the absurdity.

“I don’t know how to please you,” he confessed, mortified. He hated to admit it, but it had to be said.

“I can teach you,” she said, eyes dancing, and Graves flushed red. “But I don’t think it should be done against the window in the library.”

“No,” Graves agreed, but he couldn’t seem to let her go. She was perfect in his arms.

He kissed her again, intending to step away, but then he couldn’t. The kiss turned into another kiss and then another. Her hands travelled down his neck to his chest, skimming over the buttons of his waistcoat to the front of his trousers. Graves nearly choked as her hand brushed his hard prick, straining against the fabric, and he buried his face in the crook of her neck. The scent of her skin, smelling faintly of lavender soap, filled his senses as she palmed his rapidly-growing erection. He could only cling to her desperately, moaning her name like a hymn. Her small, clever hand squeezed and fondled him and he soon found himself on the edge of climax. At the last moment, he grabbed her hand and pulled it away, despite his desire reaching nearly unbearable heights.

“Wait,” he managed to mutter, voice strained as he panted for air. “We can wait for tonight.”

Queenie looked at him, her lips pink and swollen from kisses, eyes twinkling and glassy with desire. She nibbled her lower lip and Graves needed to close his eyes to shut out the alluring sight.

“Then we’ll wait,” she said softly, brushing one last kiss against his mouth.

They broke apart for good, hastily adjusting their clothes and striving to regain composure. Graves, mortified by the thick erection tenting his trousers, attempted to adjust himself to hide his shame while Queenie merely gave him an amused smirk that was no help at all.

Queenie went on her way, probably to the garden to hunt for more butterflies, while Graves retreated to his bedchamber. Wracked with desire, he fell upon his bed. He had to resist touching himself more than ever now. They would have each other that night, he just needed to wait for her.

That was easier promised that endured. His body was feverish with want for her and his mind kept replaying their encounter in the library, enflaming him ever further. To think she had wanted him just as much... it seemed unbelievable, yet one thing he admired about Queenie was her honesty.

The afternoon wore torturously on until suddenly it was evening and time for dinner. Graves managed to compose himself enough to don his suit and head for the dining table, where again time seemed to slow. Dinner dragged on longer than it ever had before, and Queenie looked especially ravishing in a wine-red gown that made her pale skin glow. She kept giving him coy glances through her lashes and occasionally she’d take a bite of roast and moan softly in pleasure. The sound seemed to go straight to his cock and he was in agony by the time dessert arrived.

“Chocolate tart,” she enthused. “How divine.”

Graves refused a portion, and soon found himself needing to sit with his napkin draped strategically in his lap to in a futile attempt at hiding his straining erection. Queenie tucked into a healthy slice of tart, moaning audibly at her mouthful, and Graves fought to bite back a whimper, biting his lip hard instead.

Catching his eye, Queenie giggled.

So she was teasing him deliberately. It only drove his passions harder.

When the maid came to collect her plate, Queenie grabbed the girl’s wrist. “It’s too delicious, I’d like another slice, please.”

Graves could've wept, clutching his napkin in agony instead. Queenie sipped her wine coyly, clearly enjoying her power over him. And he felt himself bend to her will. He wanted to fall at her feet and worship her; he would wait on her hand and foot if she asked. 

Queenie took her time with her second slice as well; Graves felt like he may burst at the slightest touch. His prick throbbed in his trousers as he watched her – the plush softness of her breasts, that mischievous glint in her eye, wine shining red on her lips.

Finally, thankfully, dinner concluded, and Queenie gave him a significant look.

“Shall we retire, darling?” she said innocently and Graves couldn’t speak, only nod jerkily.

He followed her upstairs, his whole body tingling in anticipation. He felt like he would die if he didn’t touch her. In the darkened hallway, he took her hand and pulled her close for a heated kiss that tasted of wine and chocolate. When the kiss broke, he chased her mouth feverishly with his own, desperation overriding better sense. He was far too impatient. Frantic for her, he gathered her in his arms and swept her up like he was a bridegroom carrying his bride across the threshold, and in a very belated sense he was. Queenie yelped in surprised delight as Graves bore her to his bedroom with as much haste as he could summon.

Once they were inside, he lay her on the bed reverently, slowing down to kiss her mouth sweetly the way she deserved. He kissed down her neck to her chest, laying a light kiss on the tops of each of her breasts.

“Oh, darling,” she laughed, cupping his cheek fondly. His hands were trembling. “Don’t be shy,” she whispered and Graves hung his head.

“Show me how.”

Queenie sat up and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. Graves allowed her to undress him, fingers working at the buttons she had so diligently sewn for him. She stripped him slowly, one piece of clothing at a time falling away as Graves was bared to her. His face felt hot, that old humility over his naked body hard to shake. But Queenie appeared to be unabashed, even delighted by his body as she uncovered it. She kissed his naked chest, fingers teasing the dark hair that trailed down to his groin. He shivered beneath her touch, prick harder than ever and leaking against his underthings. Queenie gazed up at him, her eyes bright and liquid-looking in the flickering firelight. She was so beautiful it stunned him as she plucked at the buttons of his trousers, stripping him to his drawers.

“Y-you have me at a disadvantage, my lady,” he stammered, and Queenie grinned.

“You’ll have to help with my laces.”

His hands shook harder in anticipation, but he still managed to undress her properly. She had even more layers than he did: dress, camisole, bustle, corset, chemise, drawers. And then she lay in just her stockings and garters, blonde curls spilling loose over her chest. Graves was in awe. She was more beautiful than he ever could have imagined; he brushed aside a strand of golden hair to look at her. Soft, full breasts, plush thighs, tawny gold hair between them. She had a small brown mole on her abdomen, just below her left breast and he let his thumb brush it. She shivered at the light touch, breath catching. Her cheeks were bright pink and she looked almost shy.

“You’re perfect,” he said sincerely, and she blushed darker, eyes fluttering downward.

“I never imagined you’d be so handsome,” she said softly when she could look at him again. “Rich, handsome, looking for a wife. It seemed too good to be true.”

“Do you really think so?” Graves muttered, ducking down to hide his face on her chest.

“I nearly stopped breathing when I walked into that church and saw you at the altar,” she said fondly, stroking his hair as he nuzzled her breasts. “I was expecting an old man.”

Graves looked up at her, amazed. “I thought I was one,” he confessed.

Snickering, she said, “Stop being ridiculous and kiss me.”

So he did. He fell into her arms with total abandon this time, overcome with yearning so strong it seemed to take hold of his body and mind. Her hands trailed down his back as he caressed her thighs, pushing her garters and stockings down past her knees. They kissed until he was dizzy with it, drunk with desire for her mouth. She tugged at his drawers, finally baring him to her. He blushed at the physical proof of the intensity of his want, the lewdness of his cock springing free. But Queenie had no shame and he adored her for it. When she took his naked cock in hand, he groaned, thrusting shallowly into her palm. Kissing his face as if to calm him, she rearranged their bodies so he could sink into her. The molten clutch of her body was almost too much and Graves had to pause to regain his composure.

“There you are,” Queenie muttered, breath stirring his hair as he buried his face once more in the crook of her neck.

Slowly, carefully, he began to move. She held him so kindly that he felt young and fragile in her arms. Waiting and wanting her for such a lengthy period of time took its toll: despite his efforts to hold back and make the feeling last, he couldn’t hold on very long. His climax was powerful, and he let out a wet sob against her neck as he emptied himself, the darkness inside him seeming to flee at the same moment. He’d been so cold and desolate, but in her embrace he felt that void fill. Not to capacity, but there was a solid warmth in his heart now, filling, expanding. 

He didn’t realize he’d been weeping until he pulled away and felt wetness on his face, saw it dappling her skin.

She swiped her thumbs across his tear-stained cheeks and kissed his eyelids softly. “Don’t be sad,” she muttered.

“Sad? No, I'm not sad.”

“I think you’ve been sad for a long time.”

“If I was, I'm not anymore.” He lay against her again, his heartbeat thrumming in tandem with hers. She kissed his damp brow and stroked his hair, petting him. _My Lady's kitten,_ he thought with a gaiety that was entirely foreign to him.

“Did you never talk about it?” she asked after a stretch of silence.

“I couldn’t. It was too– too painful.”

“If you don’t treat the wound, it will only grow more infected.”

He looked up at her, taking in her tenderhearted expression, so sensitive and open in the dark ochre glow of the dying fire.

“We lost… so many men. We drove them too hard and the guerrillas picked them off like cattle being driven to the slaughter. And then the retaliation… We never should have fought them in the first place. The empire… we are too greedy. We want the whole world and we don’t deserve it.”

Queenie listened to him ramble without much input, but that was all he needed from her anyway. He started to cry again, foolishly, like a child, and she held him until the tears subsided. He was usually so filled with shame after his breakdowns, but Queenie was so careful with him that he didn’t feel as embarrassed. He looked into her face and saw only kindness.

“I don’t believe I pleased you properly,” he said after they’d both dozed and then woke up again, still wrapped in the other’s arms.

“Then we’ll have to try again,” she said with that impish smile.

Queenie took the reins this time and put him through his paces, like he was a horse in need of a hard workout and she a rider too happy to see that he got one. She showed him how to touch her and bringing her pleasure was almost more satisfying than his own. Some of the things she demonstrated Graves had never even considered possible.

“I think you might be an angel straight from heaven,” he said breathlessly after she pleasured him with her mouth, something so shocking and obscene that he could barely contain himself the moment her lips touched him.

“I thought angels were supposed to be pure,” she said saucily, and he caught her mouth in a kiss. She tasted like him, sharp and salty, but he didn’t care.

“You’re so good to me, you must be divine,” he breathed, kissing her again.

After that he felt compelled to repay the favour and discovered in short order that if he died with his head between her thighs that that would be more than fine with him. Her shudders and cries of pleasure spurned him on further, and he only stopped when she pushed him away, over-stimulated and giggling irrepressibly.

“I don't believe you were an innocent virgin just yesterday,” she said, sighing contently as she lay across his chest.

“I’ve always been a quick learner,” he said with a swell of pride. 

“I was hardly so talented after my first time,” she said sleepily. “I was so nervous, shaking like a leaf.”

Graves was enjoying the feel of her hair between his fingers, so smooth despite how sweaty it was. They’d been enjoying each other for so long that the sun was rising, filling his bedchamber with pale grey light and making her ashen locks appear to glow.

“Your betrothed…” he started cautiously. “You loved him?”

Queenie considered it, but it didn’t seem like the question upset her. “I think so,” she said at last. “I knew Jacob for just a short while, but he was so kind. And he adored me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” she said. “But I told myself I couldn’t dwell in the past or I’d never live in the present.”

Graves had to marvel at that. She had such resilience that he could only envy.

“It’s almost time for breakfast,” she muttered, unable to stifle a wide yawn.

“I’ll ask Bain to bring us a tray.”

“How indulgent,” she said with a snicker. "It's a wonder lords and ladies ever leave their beds."

“I don’t ever want to leave this bed,” he said.

“I’ll have to keep you company then, or else you’d be very lonely,” she said with mock sincerity.

“I appreciate that,” he said, offering her a rare smile.

She returned it with radiating happiness and kissed his mouth, her lips tasting of sleep that couldn’t frighten him away with fear and blood, but rather promised the most peaceful slumber.

 

Eventually, they were both compelled to leave his bedroom. But despite the necessity of getting out of bed once in a while, they both found it difficult to keep away. Graves hadn’t felt so lusty and amorous since he was a young lad and now that he had someone to share his desire with she seemed just as keen. It seemed that every time he recovered and redressed and attempted to find something else to occupy his time, the desire to fall back into bed with her drove him to distraction. He would find her in the parlour and lay a kiss upon her naked shoulder and then their ardent kisses would find them upstairs in the bedroom. Or he would be out for a ride and find her in the garden picking flowers and he would sweep her up in his arms for a kiss, then before he knew it she'd be in the saddle with him, whispering suggestive things that teased his blood to a boil and he would bring them to a secluded spot where he’d lay her under a willow and kiss every part of her body he could find.

The days were blissful and the nights were erotic and intense, and Graves found himself sleeping more peacefully than he had in years. With Queenie beside him, she seemed to chase the nightmares away so that he slept soundly as a child. 

One afternoon, when Queenie had simply insisted that she needed to work on her sewing and Graves was far too distracting with his kisses, Graves received a visitor. An unwelcome visitor in the form of Gellert Grindelwald.

Graves frowned deeply as Bain announced him, but sending him away would not be prudent. He was likely bearing news that, however unpleasant, he couldn’t ignore.

“Your home seems to change every time I visit,” Grindelwald sniffed as Graves waved him into his study. Queenie’s feminine touch had indeed spread all over the manor, except in his private rooms as they had agreed. “Perhaps one day you’ll introduce me to your wife.”

“That seems unlikely,” Graves said drily, not bothering to offer Grindelwald so much as a cup of tea. “Is there a reason for your visit or are you here to insult me and my family?”

Grindelwald's sneer induced a prickle of apprehension.

“I am simply concerned, Lord Graves. I have served your family faithfully for many decades and I only have your best interests at heart.”

Graves merely raised an eyebrow in response.

“There is some rather odd activity concerning your finances.”

“Well, as you yourself even observed, my wife has been spending some money in order to redecorate. She’s also a very talented dressmaker and must purchase materials.”

“Yes, yes, that’s all in order, but she’s been taking other bundles of cash as well.”

Graves didn’t respond at first, frowning.

Grindelwald passed him a sheet of paper with several columns of numbers. “She’s been withdrawing fifty pounds a month and sending it to an address in Hackney. It seems like quite a lot to be spending on bread, don’t you think?”

“Bread?” Graves repeated, confused.

Grindelwald handed him another sheet, an invoice for fifty pounds, mailed to an establishment called Kowalski Quality Baked Goods in Stamford Hill.

He tried very hard to look like this was not news to him. “She has her reasons, no doubt. I can easily spare fifty pounds a month.”

“Kowalski is an intriguing name, yes?” Grindelwald continued, voice dripping in fake concern. “Forgive me, but I couldn’t help but dig around a little. I laid it all out for you here.” He handed Graves a sheaf of papers tied in string.

Graves flipped through them briefly, growing more confused by the moment at what he found.

“I do hope you find my research enlightening, my lord. I’ll keep in touch.”

Graves did not even bid him goodbye as Grindelwald departed, his mind churning.

 

That night, Graves prepared to depart for London. It was short notice and he’d be travelling well past midnight, but he was restless. Queenie reacted with uncertainty tempered by alarm. 

“This is quite sudden.” She wrung her hands as he donned his travelling cloak.

“I won’t be gone for more than a few days at most. Maybe less.”

“You have business?” she said, brows furrowed.

“Yes,” he said, leaning in to kiss her goodbye. “I’ll explain more when I return.”

The look of confusion on her face wrenched his heart. But he didn’t turn back.

Graves had never enjoyed travelling. Though the carriage was well-sprung, the road was bumpy and jostled him constantly, preventing any meaningful sleep even as the hour grew late and exhaustion stole over him. He could only manage a light doze that was always interrupted by the carriage rocking about. It was dreadfully late by the time he arrived in London, and the innkeeper whom he patronized grumbled sleepily at him, but still took his coin.

He slept for only a few hours, his dreams fraught with worry as they hadn’t been in weeks. He hadn’t slept away from Queenie since that first night together. 

It was still very early when he rose. He washed his face in a cold basin of water and forced down a light breakfast of dark bread and ale. He woke his coachman, who looked his equal in exhausted disgruntlement but did not complain. 

Stamford Hill was not an affluent area. Residents of Stepney and Whitechapel had fled there as their impoverished neighbourhoods grew overcrowded with the influx of immigrants from Ireland and Eastern Europe. The address he sought lay on a street with a synagogue and a number of storefronts, many bearing signs in Hebrew. Kowalski Quality Baked Goods did not stand out particularly. It was small, slightly shabby, but not uncared for. Although the front sign was in English, some of the advertisements scribbled on the small windows in grease pen were in Hebrew.

His coachman gave him an uneasy look as Graves stepped out onto the mud-slick road. Graves ignored him and stepped into the store. The bell above the door rang and he immediately needed to step aside as a pair of men with payot and shtreimel nudged past him. The store was neat and tidy, the shelves stacked with every kind of bread and pastry imaginable.

“Can I help you, sir?”

The woman at the counter was eyeing him skeptically. She was slight, dark-haired, dressed modestly and looked at him as though certain he had wandered in by mistake.

“I’m looking for a Mr. Jacob Kowalski,” he said, and the woman’s eyes grew wide.

“Mr. Kowalski is no longer with us. He passed on over a year ago,” she said. “May I ask why you want to see him?”

Graves blinked, confused. “I thought – I heard –“ he stammered, caught off guard. “I wasn’t able to find an obituary.”

“It wasn’t announced in English papers,” she said.

“I see.”

That, in retrospect, was obvious.

“May I ask your name, madam?”

“My name? Tina Goldstein.”

“Goldstein,” he repeated. “Of course.”

“Who are you?” Miss Goldstein inquired, clearly annoyed by his deliberately vague manner.

“My name is Percival Graves. I am the Lord Marquess of Gravesend.”

Miss Goldstein’s eyes widened and she blinked rapidly, mouth falling open.

“Are you acquainted with anyone by the name of Queenie Goldstone – or Goldstein, I suppose.”

“My Lord –“ Miss Goldstein said haltingly, still looking rather alarmed.

“You may call me Graves,” he said with what he hoped was a pacifying smile. “I do believe I’m your brother-in-law.”

 

Graves returned to Yorkshire that night, with a few precious things wrapped in cloth and a fresh loaf of challah. It was well past dinner time and he was sure Queenie would already be in bed, but instead he found her in the parlour, staring into the fire. She leapt up when he entered, still in his travelling cloak and top hat.

“You’re home!”

“I’m home." Allowing Bain to take his hat and cloak, he then waited for him to leave so he could be alone with Queenie. 

“And your business?” she said, twisting a lace handkerchief anxiously.

“It was... enlightening.” He carried his bundle under his arm as he approached her, laid a hand on her waist and leaned down to kiss her affectionately. He had missed her, and it had barely been a full day. He hadn’t had the time to shave and his jaw was rough with grey stubble. They pulled apart and Queenie stared up at him in confusion.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t more forthcoming,” he said. “I am often... close-mouthed. I wish I wasn’t.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I spent the day with your sister,” he said. “She is my sister too, by law.”

Queenie stared at him with her mouth agape.

“It’s alright,” he said earnestly. “I understand the subterfuge, I do. But you must know – it’s alright.”

Queenie sank into the armchair behind her, still looking rather blindsided. “My lord –“ she began, but Graves cut her off, bending down on one knee to look into her face.

“What happened to darling, or dear, or –“

“Percival,” she said with no little helpless exasperation, taking his hand. 

“You see, when it was brought to my attention that you were sending money to a business owned by Jacob Kowalski, who seemed at first glance to still be living –“

“You thought I was unfaithful to you,” she finished for him, and Graves shook his head.

“I thought you had left your betrothed, who you loved, and married me instead while still loving him, and I thought that was terribly unfair.”

Uncharacteristically, Queenie did not respond.

“Here –“ He unwrapped his bundle, laying the challah loaf on the end table. There was a book in there also and a silver chain.

“Your sister gave me these, she said you might want to have them.”

“This was my father’s,” Queenie said, her voice small. Unshed tears shone in her eyes, sparkling with flecks of firelight.

“I confess I don’t know its purpose,” he said sheepishly as Queenie reverently touched the cover.

“It’s a Haggadah, for the Seder on Passover.”

“I see. There’s this too.”

The silver chain glimmered in the orange light, its pendant a Star of David.

“My parents gave me this for my bat mitzvah,” she said.

“But you took it off.”

“I didn’t want you to know.”

“It doesn’t matter to me.”

Queenie laughed, with only a trace of bitterness. “I couldn’t have known that.”

Graves reached out to brush away the tear on her cheek. “I know.”

She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him into a fierce embrace. The feel of her in his arms could have cured any ill.

“When my parents died, Tina and I were alone,” she said when they broke apart. “We left Stepney for Stamford Hill and I met Jacob. He let us work in the bakery and we were engaged. But he passed – from consumption. And I wanted – I wanted something more than just toiling away with nothing to my name. I started going by Goldstone, got work in the dress shop and met Albus and then –“

“He made you an offer that sounded too good to be true.”

“I didn’t think you’d want someone like me.”

“You – you’re everything I could ever want. Beautiful, kind... energetic –“

She pulled him into a hug again, burying her face in his shoulder. He felt dampness on her cheeks and he stroked her hair.

“And witty,” he whispered, and she giggled through a sob. “Albus told me you were witty and that sealed the deal, so to speak.”

Queenie pulled back and kissed him all over his face. “I missed you,” she breathed against his cheek.

“I could barely sleep a wink without you beside me,” he choked out, then kissed her passionately. He gathered her in his arms and, like on that first night, carried her to his bedroom to lay her on the bed.

“No more secrets,” Queenie whispered, voice rough as he hastily undressed her.

“No more secrets,” he agreed. “That being said – does that mean I should call you Bathsheba?” He couldn’t stop the way his lips twitched in amusement at Queenie’s comically outraged expression.

“You will not! No one calls me that.”

“I think it’s a lovely name.”

“Stop it right this moment or I’ll be forced to call you Percy.”

Graves frowned and now it was Queenie’s turn to laugh at him.

“Fair play, my dear.” He resumed kissing her neck again. “I always thought Queenie was an unusual name.”

“It’s a perfectly fine name in comparison. And the only name I’ll answer to.”

“As you wish,” he mumbled, lips brushing her ear.

 

 

“What are you so ridiculously pleased about?” Graves said to Albus.

The other man had joined them for the evening and had acted so obnoxiously jovial and cheery that it was testing Graves’s patience. They were relaxing around the fire after a hearty dinner and Albus kept breaking out into wide smiles for no apparent reason.

“You two, of course,” he said with a flourish.

“What about us?” said Queenie.

“I am responsible for this, the ideal picture of domestic and marital bliss. Me, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Lord Duke of Hogwarts. No one else, me!”

“Well, don’t get a big head about it or anything,” Graves grumbled as Queenie snickered.

“I alone saw the potential, that true love would grow between my two dear friends...”

“You thought it would be a good joke,” Graves said with a scowl.

“No need to be so pessimistic, dear,” Queenie said primly. “It’s not a joke now, is it?”

“Of course not,” he admitted, softening, and Albus cackled again at his own brilliance.

“I simply enjoy seeing my little seedlings bear fruit,” Albus said with a sigh. “But speaking of seedlings – if you’ll excuse me – I wanted to admire the new curtains Queenie picked out for the drawing room.”

“I – what?” Graves stammered in confusion.

“I won’t be a moment,” he said with an enigmatic smile and a twinkle in his eye directed at Queenie.

Graves looked around at his wife, bewildered. She set down her cup of tea, her expression suddenly far less affable.

“Percival, I have something to tell you,” she said, once Albus had disappeared.

“Something – something bad?”

She took his hand. “Something exciting, I think,” she said, nibbling her lip.

Graves waited for her to finish, suddenly quite apprehensive.

“I'm with child, darling,” she said at last.

The shock of her words struck him dumb momentarily. Queenie was looking more anxious by the second.

“That’s wonderful,” he breathed, still unable to do more than blink owlishly.

“Is it?” she said, voice still tight with worry, having no way of knowing how she'd secured their joined future for good.

Graves felt himself smile. A real, genuine smile. “It’s just wonderful.” He gripped her hand with both of his own and brought it to his mouth, pressing a kiss on her palm. Seedlings, Albus had said. Dare he hope for one or two of their own?

Queenie’s face broke into a brilliant smile and she laughed. “Oh goodness, you had me worried.”

“I am happy,” he said with gravity. “Truly.”

Queenie lay her warm hand on his face and kissed him. “As am I,” she said.

“I had something to ask you as well,” he said once he had recovered his faculties.

“Oh?”

“The portrait hall, there’s so much empty space.”

“For future generations of Graveses.”

“Yes, but you are a Graves,” he said. “And –“ He touched her belly. “Now that you’re bearing another, you deserve to be on that wall.”

Her cheeks were turning pink but she was still smiling. “I thought you hated those paintings.”

“I do, because I never loved anyone in them. But I love you.”

“Oh, Percival.” She kissed him, her mouth tasting of the honey from her after dinner tea.

“I won’t let the past control me any longer,” he said firmly. “Not my father – or anything.”

Queenie squeezed his hand, stroking his cheek with her knuckles. He’d been so afraid of confronting anything difficult that had happened to him that he hid himself away from everything. But with Queenie beside him, he wasn’t afraid at all.

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morgan and I decided that the people who named their child "Porpentina" wouldn't have settled for something as comparatively normal as Queenie, so it must be a nickname for something really unwieldy. Bathsheba was a Jewish queen and it's a unique enough name for her to rather go by Queenie.
> 
> I based Graves's wartime flashbacks on the First Boer War in South Africa. It was just one part of the British imperialistic colonization of the continent. The British were defeated by the Dutch Boers and their guerrilla tactics, but the Second Boer War had a British victory and the Boers were thrown in concentration camps, just one of the many atrocities committed by Europeans on the continent.


End file.
